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Indian Summer: Hidden Tiger

The previous instalment of this story is Indian Summer: Temple of the Monkey God.

After the chaos and mayhem of Jaipur and Delhi, Ranthambore was a real treat. We stayed at another heritage hotel, arguably the best we’ve experienced so far. Good service, decent food, swimming pool (in February! my head exploded!) and – most importantly – a booked tour to the much-touted Ranthambore National Park. In other words, an all-paid trip to the tiger’s den.

We arrived late in the afternoon, so we took advantage of the remaining few hours of daylight and took a stroll through the village. Since I forgot my sunglasses at home, I got myself a pair of “original” Diesels for half the original price – they were lifetime guaranteed, but only on Indian soil, since they broke on our way to the airport. We also got ourselves a guava – our new favourite fruit – and promptly proceeded to consume it while watching a local game of cricket. It was all in all a peaceful afternoon. We had an early dinner, then retired to bed; the next day would start early indeed.

It was surprisingly cold at half past four, when we woke up to get ready for the trip to the jungle. We bundled up best we could, I checked my camera for the hundredth time and then we were off! To have some tea! And possibly biscuits! Because the canter bus that was scheduled to take us to the reservation was fashionably late.

After days and days of waiting – or about half an hour, if you’re into that objective time thing – we were finally off. Our guide told us though that our chances were slim – it had rained just the day before, and the tigers were unlikely to come down from the hills to the water. Damn you, dry season, couldn’t you hold it for one more day? Still, he was hopeful. We held on as the driver accelerated towards the dawn, and possibly the fateful meeting with a certain large predator, whose name by know you probably know.

The first wild animal we were to encounter in the park was not the aforementioned feline, but its prey. The graceful, shy Indian spotted deer belied its reputation by shamelessly posing for tens of hungry tourists. Hungry for perfect images of unsoiled, beautiful nature, and just possibly an extra biscuit.

There weren’t that many species to see, to be honest. But then again, if you want to actually see the animals – in lieu of staring at every wind-blown straw or leaf – you’d be much better off visiting a zoo. But I wasn’t disappointed, not really; the absence of tigers was more than offset by the spectacular vistas the park had to offer. Including, but not limited to some very insistent and shameless magpies. That didn’t mean that I was just going to give up, however. The moment we got back, I asked our faithful guide and miracle-working driver to please, please, arrange another trip for tomorrow morning. In a jeep, if possible. Our guide book recommended them for tiger hunting – the Mahindra Gipsy being faster, quieter and wider-ranging than the canter busses the park has to offer. The only problem? Jeeps are booked in advance. Way in advance. Not possible via the hotel reception, and almost impossible on a day’s notice, the receptionist said. But that “almost” gave me hope.

In the meantime we went sightseeing again. On the heights near the park’s entrance there is a formidable fort, with more than a thousand years of attested history. One can visit it for free – not counting the cost of transport from the village – and its temples are still being used. It was indeed an impressive sight.

Ranthambore is now a national park, but in the olden days it was a royal hunting ground, with the mighty tiger being on the top of the list. Indeed, according to ancient custom, a rajah had to kill no less than 109 tigers to ensure an auspicious rule. The introduction of the modern hunting guns – and the attached Brits – brought the big cats on the brink of extinction. In modern-day India, poaching is just as perilous for tigers; their pelt, bones and internal organs can fetch really high prices on the black market. They are mostly used for so-called “traditional remedies” – for instance, tiger’s testes are thought to be an “effective” “cure” “for” “impotence”. That is why today there are less than 1500 tigers left in the whole of India. I sincerely hope that when tiger’s organs become increasingly unavailable, the “traditional medicine” will look to the poacher’s testes as a possible replacement in their cures.

In any case, a nice surprise was waiting for me back at the hotel. Sunil, our guardian angel, had kept his promise: I had a place in a jeep the very next day. We celebrated this amazing feat with proper quantities of beer before retiring to another night of uneventful sleep.

Alas, the only tigers I saw that day were the ones in my dreams.

Monday June 28th, 2010 The daily all View Comments

Indian Summer: The Temple of the Monkey God

The previous instalment of this story is Indian Summer: The Pink City.

We said goodbye to Jaipur the next morning over a glass of lassi, one of those delicious, refreshing surprises that India indiscriminately threw at us. Lassi is basically spiced yoghurt; it may be plain, sweetened or salted, and it’s definitely worth it to try all three. There might be tastier drinks to be had on a warm “winter” morning, but I’ve yet to encounter them. Our guide told us that every lassi vendor has his own recipe, often passed down through generations. It’s amazing to think that this simple, unassuming drink may have been around for as long as there was an Indian civilization.

Before we left, we took another walk through the Pink City and admired the Palace of the Winds. This palace is actually nothing more than a facade with numerous windows, lavishly decorated in the same Jaipur style. Its role was to allow the royal concubines to observe parades and city life without being seen. It is, if you wish, the world’s most expensive modesty veil.

And off we went, to Ranthambore. Or so we thought. Because Sunil, our faithful guide, had one more surprise in store for us. A few kilometres out of the city, in a valley flanked by granite walls, lays a temple of Hanuman, the Indian monkey god. A quiet, peaceful place, built of sandstone and inhabited not only by monks, but also by a tribe of friendly rhesus monkeys, this temple irradiates serenity.

I wish I could convey to you the simple beauty and tranquillity of this place. It was so far away from the organised chaos of Delhi and Jaipur that it seemed to be another world entirely. And in some ways, it was. The monkeys here were used to people walking about, sometimes feeding them peanuts and small bananas. They were not aggressive in the least, although after my experience with the langurs of Amber Palace, I was understandably circumspect. Mostly they walked around, slept or played near the pool, near the centre of the temple complex. A passing monk told us that they were mainly present because of the water; it was the only source within a few square kilometres. At night, panthers would come and drink from the pool, he added. We had to take him at his word; much too soon we were back in the Ferrary-badged Mahindra-Suzuki, driving through the countryside, headed for Ranthambore.

There, we were told, we’d find tigers.

Tuesday June 1st, 2010 The daily all View Comments

Indian Summer: The Pink City

The previous instalment of this story is Indian Summer: The road to Rajasthan.

The next day began not with a whimper, but with a really nice breakfast on the rooftop of our “heritage” hotel. We were in Jaipur, city of kings. The weather was nothing short of perfect, the beginning of a bright summer day as far as my body was concerned. There was peace and quiet and ginger-honey tea and nan bread and not a care in the world. Alas, it wasn’t meant to last.

Woe to thee, nan bread! Thou and thine alluring, indigestion-inducing masala sauce! My body abruptly stopped enjoying the summer and hastily instructed its owner that the location and apprehension of immediate gastric relief were paramount, if not to my survival, then at least to my enjoyment of this beautiful day. I acquiesced as soon as I was able, and directed our faithful Sunil towards the nearest apothecary, where my quest brought me a handful of pills and a suspiciously-looking bottle, which I ingested momentarily. This treatment, plus an hour’s walk in the beautiful city park were very effective, so much so that I even dared entering an Indian specialty restaurant for lunch. Only this time I ordered the rice.

This is the only “horror” story I have with regard to Indian food. I heard much worse from fellow tourists, but I’ve never experienced any problems either before or since. I share this anyway because so many people asked me about the “food issue” after I came back. Sorry folks, no dysentery stories here. But tremble at my tale of mild discomfort!

That taken care of, we headed for the royal palace in Jaipur, situated right in the middle of the Pink City. It’s not called that way for nothing; all the buildings in the old part of the city are painted pink. This is not for some grand vision of a world where all of us could live in peace, regardless of race, colour or sexual orientation. Rather, to hide the bad quality of the materials used for the buildings. I did not invent this; it was in my travel book.

The old city was designed like a mandala, according to the high principles of Hindu architecture and in stark contrast to the confused maze of the typical Middle Age Indian town – a tradition which, dare I say, has been faithfully preserved to this day. The buildings come in multiples of nine, and the architecture that manages to be uniform, but not monotone. It’s still incredibly crowded, of course, but by this time we resigned ourselves to it. India may be a big place, but there’s lots of Indians there, you know – not to mention the hordes of camera-toting, gape-mouthed tourists.

Anyway, after much honking and crawling at naught dot slow per hour and squeezing through spaces where no car should ever pretend to fit, we managed to reach the centre, where our coveted prize was waiting for us. As I understood from Sunil, part of the palace is still occupied by the royals. I hope they have their own parking spots, because I know we didn’t. After circling once, our guide dropped us off in front of the gate and told us that he’ll meet us there later. We got our tickets, armed our camera and in we went.

There are still royal guards in the Royal Palace of Jaipur, looking properly flamboyant with their imposing red turbans and wild moustaches. The moustaches are a Rajasthan tradition, as far as I understood. They’re also very very camera-friendly – at least that was my first impression, when two of them volunteered to have their pictures taken with us. Afterwards I understood that this was also a good source of income for the hard-working military guards – when told in no uncertain terms that I should be leaving a “tip, sir, tip” (big smile). The accompanying gesture of rubbing the thumb and index finger was meant to dissolve any possible misunderstandings.

Aside from this minor inconveniences, the palace itself is amazing. Garishly decorated – Indian style – with elegant sculptured arches and beautiful painted murals, it is a wonder to behold. It is a testament to the mildness of the climate and the care of the palace curators in equal measure, I presume. I’ll let the photos speak for themselves.

We left the palace behind with a mild sense of regret. There was too much to see, to little time… Already I was starting to feel that dreaded tourist drive known as “the checklist”. So I employed the only cure I knew: getting lost in the crowd on a busy bazaar street at midday, with no particular aim and no intention to buy anything even mildly resembling “souvenirs”.

By now we needed silence – so we went back to the palace gate. We paid off a couple of beggars¹, found our guide and got into the car. “Take us away, Sunil”, I might have said. “Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere devoid of the incessant press of purposely moving human bodies.” I may have sighed deeply at this point.

“I know just the place”, he might have said. And he drove us to another world.

Begging is a respected tradition and really common in India. People believe they advance (or burn) their karma by giving to the poor, or the unfortunate, or the holy men that may cross their path. Indeed, the begging bowl is since times immemorial a symbol of the wandering saint. In today’s India, begging is an accepted form of social protection – if we can call it that – since the Indian state has little in place to help those in need. [↩]